An Apology Like Listening
by HalfshellVenus1
Summary: Lincoln/Nika Drama, Het: The unforgiving memories of a woman scorned...


Title: **An Apology Like Listening**  
Author: HalfshellVenus  
Characters: Lincoln/Nika (**Drama, Het)**  
Rating: M  
Summary: She deserved better than to simply be forgotten.  
Author's Notes: Post-Series, some spoilers for early Season 2. Written as prompt #18 (And if the answer is no / can I change your mind?) for **philosophy20**, and prompt #14 (Regret) for **prisonbreak100**.

x-x-x-x-x 

She hadn't seen him since that day, since he and Michael left her stranded by the side of the road. 

She'd hardly noticed how he looked then. Her eyes were full of Michael and the sting of her tears. Somehow those two things went together. 

He was larger than she remembered. Big and bulky, so very different from his brother. So this was the man that was worth everything— who so clearly was worth more than _her_. 

It hadn't ended well, after that day. The day she'd rubbed herself all over that disgusting man with the gun, playing cat and mouse with him. She'd won—not for herself, but for Michael—but somehow she'd felt as if her tail was still trapped under that cat's paw even after they'd escaped. 

So. Back home, to her shabby apartment. She'd walked down the road, getting as far away from those nasty prison-guard men as she could. They'd been tied up the last time she'd seen them, but things could change. Prisoners got free. She had escaped her own prison in coming to America. She'd helped Michael escape his. 

She'd gotten a ride back to the city. More than one—she'd elbowed the first driver across the face when his hand joined his eyes on her body. That little pink tracksuit she'd worn that day, meant to catch Michael's attention, had brought that attention from everyone else instead. She wasn't sure Michael had even noticed it. It was as invisible to him as she was. 

There was nothing waiting for her when she returned. There'd been nothing before that either, except her hard-won survival and the tiny bit of mystery that one Michael Scofield brought into her life. 

She should never have let herself hope. He'd made it clear from the beginning that all of it was business—first their "marriage," and then everything that came after. She'd paved the way for Michael with that lady doctor, for heaven's sake, and he'd said it was about the key… but now she wasn't sure. There were so many other things hiding under almost every word Michael had ever said. 

She hadn't heard from him since that day—not directly. There was a deposit made to a bank account in her name—Michael's blood money, perhaps—but nothing else. 

She'd thought they were leaving the country, Michael and his brother. He'd never told her much about his plans, but that part she'd been almost certain of. 

So why was the brother here then, back in Chicago? It was the last place he and Michael ever should have been. 

And Michael Scofield was not stupid. 

The brother must be here for something. What, then? She'd already given Michael too much. 

"What do you want, Mr. Scofield?" she said steadily. 

"It's Burrows, actually-- Lincoln," he answered. His voice was smooth-gravel hush over honey. 

She'd fallen for a different voice once years ago, for silky persuasion. That voice had talked her into hoping for a future, then into breaking the law instead of living the marriage she'd already made. 

"I remember," she said. She remembered being left out of the plan—and the money—and the humiliation of being forced to walk away under the threat of her own gun. "Why are you here?" 

"I came to see you—to say I'm sorry for how things went down back then, after the escape." 

Such a strange man, Lincoln. He'd been closed-off and quiet the first time she'd met him, and now he was wide open and ready to be her friend. Michael had always been polite and caring, but never completely sincere—she'd thought he was, once, but too many hidden agendas had followed. She'd been so blind. 

"I have survived, as you see." She waved her hand toward the apartment, the car—different from before, the old one sacrificed for Michael plans. 

"There's survival and then there's living," Lincoln said softly. "And I know a little about the difference. Can I come in?" 

"Into the hallway. For a bit." 

Once inside, it was easy to let him come in a little further—to her front door, then to her sofa, where he settled back against the cushions like the two of them were old friends, or were about to become something more. 

"You're very sure of yourself, aren't you?" she asked. 

"I've come to terms with my good points and bad points," he said. "I'll never have riches to offer, but I know how to listen and how to have a good time." 

"And which of those is it you think I need?" Really, he was so presumptuous. 

"Neither. Both. Something else entirely," he said. "You tell me." 

What she needed, knowing that there was no fairy tale ending for her in this life or any other, with or without Michael Scofield… was an apology. A sense of _regret._ Not her own—it was far too late for that. All those consequences and choices were wound around each other too tightly-- a Green Card marriage in a dreamed-of America, a love unanswered, money to make new options, a brother's life saved. Too much of that was important to want it all undone. No, the regret would not be hers. 

"It's easy to be sorry now, when nothing's at stake," she said. "You used that gun to make me stay behind—in the middle of nowhere—while the two of you escaped." 

"You pointed it at us first." His voice was gentle, not at all like it had been that day, when he turned her backup plan against her in a matter of minutes. "We had to leave, Nika—they would have killed us if they'd found us. It wasn't the last time they tried." 

"You could have taken me with you. You didn't even ask—and he never thought about it for a second. I was worthless and forgotten as soon as I brought that car." 

He didn't say anything for a moment—but then, how could he? They both knew the words were true. 

"I don't know… _how_ he could have planned things differently, Nika. It was all so complicated right from the beginning, and he was doing the impossible by trying to save me. He wasn't thinking about anything else back then, no matter how wonderful—or pretty—the chances he was missing." 

She didn't expect him to offer kindness. It wasn't fair—there was so much anger she still carried inside. "I wonder," she began thoughtfully, "whether he married me to save me, or to make me grateful in case he needed me again." Because it had worked—she'd gone past her limits of comfort and safety over and over with what she'd done for him, long after she'd promised herself she wouldn't. 

"Whatever it became," Lincoln answered, "I'm sure it started out as wanting to help you. That's one of the things about Michael I admire most." 

She, too, had admired Michael back before that day. Perhaps she had idolized him— he'd rescued her from deportation, after all. He'd also risked everything to save his brother, his actions all so impossibly brave and true like a fairy-tale knight in shining armor. She'd never before imagined that someone like Michael could be real, let alone that she'd happen to meet him. What cruelty the world had held for her then, bringing her Michael and his romance only to find that she was never to be the princess after all. 

"Hey…" Lincoln said softly. "Don't cry, Nika, please—it'll be all right." 

It still hurt, even after all this time. No matter how many men smiled at her, flirted with her, _wanted_ her, it changed nothing. She was still the woman Michael Scofield had not chosen. 

"Come here," Lincoln coaxed, pulling her down against his shoulder. He smelled clean and warm, with a spicy hint of maleness. His arms around her were solid. 

She let herself lean in, blinking fiercely to stop the tears from coming. She was not to be pitied—not by Lincoln, not by Michael, and most of all not by herself. It was time to put those thoughts behind her and start fresh. Hadn't she waited long enough? 

Lincoln's hand on her face stroked tears away with the ease of someone who was used to other people crying. His eyes, so close to hers, were dark with concern. She felt every bit of it when he kissed her… 

So soft and firm, so very real and now and _for her_. It was sweet and undemanding, and the second kiss was gentler and slower still. It was comforting, like the hand on her face, offering her all the assurance he had to give. 

When it was over, she missed it like sunlight in the dark of a long Prague winter. The third kiss, she moved in and took for herself. 

Everything about Lincoln was strong—his mouth on hers, his body pressing closer. But his touch was not overpowering. He caressed her with infinite care, as if he worried that in this moment either his hands or her own memories could break her. 

She nearly smiled at that idea, at how unusual it was to be treated as if anything inside of her mattered. She suddenly felt safe with him and with her own unexpected yearnings. Easing herself up to straddle across his lap, she rolled against him hungrily. She was done now with being fragile. 

Oh, the change in the way he kissed her… It wasn't dangerous or insistent, but deep and urgent, like she was air and he was the fire that would consume her. He folded an arm around her, bringing her in closer, and she couldn't help rocking herself across him, teasing herself on his arousal. 

He gasped in surprise, shuddering as she kept moving. It felt so good, so incredibly good, but it wouldn't be enough for her like this. She wanted more. 

When she backed up off the sofa, her arms around Lincoln's neck and pulling him with her, he didn't protest. Standing up, he was so much taller than she was, but it didn't last. With one swift movement he hoisted her up, carrying her to the bedroom as she wrapped her legs around his waist. 

He set her on the bed, lying back and urging her up on top of him. His hands slipped up the back of her blouse, the around to the front, stroking over her skin. She unbuttoned the first button, and then the next, before his fingers moved in to help speed things along. He pushed the blouse off her shoulders, fingers flowing rough-tipped smooth-sliding down. She lifted up his shirt in turn, the tanned muscles underneath so firm and inviting. She ran her hands across him before unbuckling his pants, working them down and removing her own. 

She climbed in close then, easing and shifting until they fitted in together lock and key. 

They found a rhythm before long, his hands sweeping over her skin and hair as she rolled and lifted above him, lost in her own desire. The silk and rasp of his mouth against hers was a craving in itself— the fulfillment of a need for passion in a world of practical things. 

Rougher and looser she moved, until she was gasping for breath with the tide of sweet, shuddering abandon. Lincoln's voice found her ears, wordless cries of his own satisfaction, and as the ecstasy faded she sank down to earth again to meet him. 

"Nika," he rumbled, saying her name for only the third time. It was real, the way he said it, and it made _her_ feel real for the first time in far too many years. 

"Is this how you tell women you're sorry?" she teased him. 

He smiled. "This is how I tell you that you're beautiful and smart. Because you are," he added softly. "Never doubt that. You'll find the love you need." 

"You're not going to marry me?" She waited until his eyes got huge before winking at him playfully, to let him in on the joke. 

'I, uh—" 

"You were just stopping by," she said. "Not staying. I know-- it's all right." 

Lincoln's fingers brushed her cheek for a moment. "Would you have turned us in to the police, the way you said that day?" 

"No," she sighed, feeling defeated. "I just wanted him to listen, to take me seriously. I wanted to be part of his future, you see." 

"Your life is yours now, to do what you want," Lincoln noted. "Michael made sure of that. You're a permanent resident now." 

She'd stopped stripping a few years back, turning to secretarial work while she went to business school at night. She was good with numbers— something else she'd had in common with Michael, though it didn't matter now. 

"And what of you?" she remembered suddenly. "Does your life belong to you again?" 

"Yes," he answered. "Though I'm still figuring out what that means." 

They held each other silently for awhile, soothing down the memories of all the missteps each of them had made. 

When Lincoln grew restless, she was ready to let him go. They dressed quietly, trading smiles from time to time, but it was over. Not a mistake—just nothing that was ever meant to last. 

She walked with him to the door. "Thank you for coming," she said, meaning every bit of it. 

"My pleasure," he answered. His kiss was soft and sure. "Take care of yourself, Nika," he added with sincerity. "_Good_ care. You deserve it." 

"I will," she said automatically. For her mind was already somewhere else. 

In that brief moment, she found herself hoping that Lincoln would tell Michael what had happened. Not brag about it, just mention the lovely intimacy the two of them had shared. And then Michael would know, _This is what you missed—what you could have had._ He would know everything he'd thrown away so carelessly—her loyalty, her very heart. 

But then she thought of all the other people Michael had used along the way. 

Perhaps he wasn't the man she'd thought he was. Truly, never the right one at all. 

That idea swept through her, leaving peacefulness in its wake. "I'll be fine," she told Lincoln, sure for the very first time that it was true. 

His smile looked happy, as he stepped across the threshold and turned away. 

Then the door closed behind him, shutting off his image and a chapter in her life that she'd already mourned too long.

_-------- fin --------_


End file.
